


Opalescent Mind

by tricksterlovegodling



Category: Twelfth Night - Shakespeare
Genre: Genderfluid Character, Introspection, Jealousy, Married Life, Non-Linear Narrative, Other, Post-Canon, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22792087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricksterlovegodling/pseuds/tricksterlovegodling
Summary: Orsino thinks about the change of heart he went through since he met Viola/Cesario and how his feelings aren't the kind one writes poetry about
Relationships: Orsino/Viola | Cesario (Twelfth Night)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	Opalescent Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I ask myself aren't you done with Twelfth Night? Not yet. Not before I get to Malvolio.

Once you change, you can’t make sense of your old self. Orsino can no longer understand what he was trying to accomplish, and especially doesn’t know how he could ever had believed the things he had once been so sure of. He looks back in shame rather than nostalgy, except for the memories he has of his friend.

His change of mind didn’t happen fast, and was actually still happening, but he could trace its origins back to his friend. If he felt so comfortable now with telling his wife his every thought, it was only because he first had a friend with whom he shared the secrets of his soul. 

The way he thought about love was probably the greatest change. He might as well try to make sense of a stranger’s actions. Why had he believed being rejected and suffering about it was what love looked like? He didn’t know. Ignorance? Bad influence of bad poetry?

He couldn’t make their love fit a poem, he tried in the beginning only to find out he didn’t have pretty feelings for her, they were strong, passionate, but not pretty, certainly nothing meant to inspire pretty poetry. When he closed his eyes and conjured her image, what came to him was too private for a love poem, or anything meant to be seen by anyone else. And this was also not poetic at all: he was insanely jealous that she loved anyone else but him. Not that she might fall in love with another, any kind of love she felt towards others presented a challenge in which he had to prove his ability to conceal his possessive nature. 

He had no problem confessing his jealousy to her, but there were details he’d spare her from. She was surprised when he referred to the one word sentences she exchanged with her brother as a secret language, but he didn’t know what else to call them, when they were obviously so meaningful to the pair, while he was excluded. She laughed when he said he wished he didn’t have to share her with anyone, not nearly as horrified by his words as he had been when thinking them. Somehow he guessed she wouldn’t be as amused to hear him say he wished she had no brother. He didn’t have any problem with Sebastian, actually, but he hated how his wife loved him so dearly, even if it wasn't the kind of love he wanted from her.

Even if he could reason with his excessive jealousy towards Sebastian, and look content as his true feelings were contained, it wasn't as easy with his counterpart Olivia. Whatever warm feeling he once convinced himself he’d had for her, could never compare to his fiery rage when Olivia showed his wife any form of affection, which was usually the sisterly kind, but at times he could swear it wasn't. He tried telling himself he was being ridiculous, still he didn’t leave them alone for long. And it was clear in his wife’s eyes she knew it and thought him laughable, and yet they never fought about that.

Their fights happened when he wouldn’t listen. There were many different reasons for that, some his fault, others completely beyond his control. Not according to her, though. She would accuse him of choosing not to listen every time, which was rarely true but the distinction didn’t really alter the course of their fights. And nothing was less pretty than shouts and slammed doors. There was nothing endearing about her anger. Nothing poetical about the uncomfortable agitation that refused to leave him any other way than by her displays of affection, assuring him she still loved him.

He used to fear it was inevitable they lost interest in one another as time passed, but it wasn't like that at all. Maybe he didn't feel about to die whenever she touched him like in the beginning, but he could tell the intention behind each of her touches, and he was proud in recognizing when she wanted reassurance, tenderness or lust, and it was better like that. He couldn't really go back to the mindset he once had, he didn't want to go back, but sometimes he wondered why he used to be so sure being a woman's first man was the best kind of love there could be. He knew for sure he'd been wrong, yet it got him no closer to writing a poem that said her love was better the thousandth time than the first, that knowing how to please her was much better than hoping not to hurt her. That was too personal for poetry.

His friend came and went in secret. No one would see him except himself. Sometimes he would wake up to find him lying in bed with him, fully clothed, waiting for the moment he'd be noticed. Sometimes he came at night, Orsino would enter his bedchamber, expecting his wife, and found his favorite surprise. His friend looked even more immune to time than his wife: while she at least looked more experienced, though not older; he looked as youthful and innocent as ever. The love hidden behind this childlike appearance, however, was anything but pure. That was another poem he would never write.

Sometimes he fell asleep with his friend and would wake up with his wife. But sometimes, in the dark, he couldn't tell which one he had, and would say "my dear", and would say "lover", whatever he could conjure that wouldn't scare either of them away. He loved both, and if he could have both he would for as long as they'd exist at the same time, which only seemed to happen in the dark.

He wasn't the same around Cesario either. He never asked Viola what he once asked his friend: "Do you ever visit anyone else?" 

The boy asked about whom he spoke, but there was no surprise when he said Olivia. He was laughed at unapologetically, and finally Cesario said: "I do long to go places and talk to people, but not that. Do you think it’s her I want? Or do you trust your wife so little that you have to ask me?”

“I wouldn’t accuse my wife of being unfaithful, but I can ask my dearest friend of his adventures.”

The boy laughed some more. “Adventures in the bedroom are the only kind I’m not starved for, and you’re my sole companion in those,” he assured. 

Orsino didn’t grow any less jealous of Olivia’s looks to his wife. What actually came of that talk was his decision to take Viola to trips where he would spend most of the time in Cesario’s company, while he enjoyed the part of the world where he was allowed to be himself. The boy thanked him nightly, and Viola was grateful too whenever she decided to show up.

Love was neither sad, nor pretty, he came to understand. Love was an ever changing being who didn’t fit a single description. The love telling him to give his beloved whatever their heart might desire, making him miserable when he couldn't do it, was the same love telling him to lock his wife away so her beauty would be his, and his alone, telling him the boy was so overwhelmingly lovely it would be better to smother him in his arms, yet he never regretted not acting on those. The same love which compelled him to demand his wife’s undivided attention, also reminded him there were days Viola needed her space as much as air. If he were patient and understanding, those were the kind of nights when Cesario would sleep with him.

It was a little past their two year mark when he noticed the reason he missed Cesario so terribly was he hadn’t seen him in weeks, over a month, he realized. So asked her what he hadn’t asked so far: “Where’s Cesario these days?” 

“Who knows?” she told him distantly. 

“Has he ever been away for so long?”

“He’s not away, just asleep.” She avoided his eyes and spoke in a monotone.

Despite the times he didn’t listen, now he did, but it didn’t mean he understood. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he apologized, deciding his questions were useless attempts of shedding light on what was meant to be kept in darkness. 

“You didn’t,” she replied still too distant in his opinion. 

“What are you thinking?” he tried. 

Whatever answer he was preparing for it wasn't her news: “I’m trying to guess what our baby will look like.”

It was wonderful news and he was ecstatic. He was also relieved. There had been no talk of babies since her nephew, little Antonio, had been born a year ago. She had fallen in love with the little boy so completely, he would never have thought her reaction not to be positive when he said: “Imagine when it’s our own.” But her smile disappeared as soon as she heard his words, a preoccupied expression took over her, and she never answered. He wondered about that, but it never felt like the right time to ask her why. 

He loved the news, the waiting was a different story. He had no choice but to accept Cesario had left indefinitely, unfit for motherhood. And like so many aspects of his married life, he hadn’t expected ever to find a pregnant woman attractive. If only she believed him! There were also Olivia’s frequent visits, the two of them closer than ever. He could only hope she wouldn’t believe Olivia either if she said Viola looked beautiful no matter what. Hope didn’t make him any less jealous, however. 

His daughters changed him in ways his wife never could. They were the love poems destined to outlive him. He had always known he would love them, that part was expected, the consequences of such love proved less predictable. He’d forgotten all about wanting sons the instant he laid eyes on his girls. The others hadn’t. They all expected him to long for a male heir, and made it clear in comments, jokes, and even distracted spoken thoughts: a son to carry on his name. Now he had seen his daughters, however, he’d much rather fill the world with beautiful girls made of his love for Viola. There was only one boy he longed for, and he wasn't his son.

When he finally found Cesario in his bedchamber again, waiting for him one night, he was surprised to see the boy unchanged. He was still as fresh as spring, maybe not as inexperienced as he’d been, but still a boy. A carefree boy, shuffling cards, sitting on his bed. “Pick a card, my lord,” he said eagerly, interrupting Orsino’s greeting. 

When he did as instructed, he couldn't keep from laughing out loud at the crude picture drawn on the card in so much detail. “Where did you get this? Is the whole deck like that?” he asked in amusement. 

“It may have been stolen from an oblivious brother long ago,” the boy shrugged. “Now put it back.” When the card was returned, he set the deck down. “Was this your card?” he asked, getting on his knees. 

Love had a strange sense of humour, he realized, but it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Cesario and him were allowed so little time together. It wasn't fair that Viola would grow more beautiful as her circle of loved ones became larger. It certainly wasn't fair his daughters would someday love others and move on from him. Most importantly, it wasn't fair that he should feel so selfishly about the very people for whom he wanted the best. But love’s sense of humour had its way of making a joke out of him, and most days he understood laughing at the joke felt better than refusing to see it.

He could look back and laugh at the stranger his younger self had become to him, but he had no desire to see himself in that man. The young man who loved sad music and brokenhearted poetry wouldn't have understood him either. They would probably only agree in their choice of a best friend. And that was as far as he planned on agreeing with that man.

**Author's Note:**

> I think playing Orsino like he’s too silly to be taken seriously is the easiest way to make him sympathetic despite the shit he says in act 2, and the death threats on act 5. But I can't resist going a darker way about it. I insist on liking this character, even though there isn’t much in the text to redeem him.


End file.
